


Go On

by Auxiliary



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:17:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auxiliary/pseuds/Auxiliary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Dick had died instead of Damian?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speedspecks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedspecks/gifts).



> This was a birthday fic for a friend. She is very into DC and Batman and all that while I mostly enjoy Marvel. She has turned me on to the batfamily though. I apologize if anything seems out of character or generally not correct. This is my first fic for this fandom. Thank you for reading!

He doesn’t know how he should feel. Well, he knows how he should logically feel. He should feel regret and maybe a hint of remorse and then move on because there were bigger and better things to be doing than standing there. 

Just standing.

Over him.

Watching.

Maybe even waiting.

He shouldn’t be here anymore. Should have left many minutes ago. But every time he tries he feels as if the floor is sucking him downward, not allowing him to move. He feels useless. Alone. Tired. He can’t count the times he’s held his breath waiting for him to move but it never comes. There’s a moment he’s not entirely sure is reality or his mind showing him what he wants to see. A twitch and maybe a hiccup of life, but there is no movement. There is no more false hope. It’s far beyond that now.

Maybe he should cry. Maybe he feels like he wants to, needs to, is expected to. But who’s expecting it? It fringes on his heart like falling in a frozen pond that has thawed but still holds an icy ridge around the edge. It’s sharp and it cuts and it’s numbing but it still hurts and you want to do something but you can’t breathe. He smiles. He’s getting poetic now.

He should leave.

And he’s just standing there.

He wants to hold out his hand and scoff and look away and say, “Come on now, that’s enough playing. We need to go.” Because he is standing over him watching him on the floor and too much this feels familiar but also completely and utterly different because he knows there is nothing to say. This time he won’t grab his hand to help him up. He won’t laugh out a retort in response. Because he’s not there. 

He’s there but he’s gone.

And maybe Damian doesn’t know how to handle that.

But he _knows_ how to handle it but he simply _cannot_.

His chest heaves and he feels sick and he gets mad at himself because _he has to go_. 

He heaves again and falls onto his knees, the impact making the puddle of blood spread wider and soak through his pants. It feels sticky on his skin. The sight of the blood make his eyes sting with tears that threaten to well up. He hates himself, he thinks. He is being weak and sentimental. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He settles them on his knees, the floor, his thighs before placing them on the chest of the man whose blood has all but stopped flowing. He thinks absently that he should have stopped the bleeding. He knew it wouldn’t have done any good but it would have mustered up some shred of dignity. 

The air feels heavy and thick, like the blood that surrounds him on the floor. He can’t get a good breath but he can’t bring himself to care. He sucks in air and it tastes of blood and it makes him nauseous. 

He is so weak. 

He needs to go.

His eyes go to the man’s hair. Dark, wet, and clumped together from the blood it lies in and it angers him. It makes bile rise up in his throat and he has to swallow it down and it burns. It makes the tears well up again before he can will them down and he hates himself again he thinks.

“What are you still doing here? You’re being ridiculous,” the man says behind him. Damian closes his eyes and holds his breath.

“You can’t help me anymore,” he continues after a while, “You couldn’t have helped me the moment it happened. You need to let it go.” Damian’s fingers hold tightly to the man’s chest beneath him. This is who is real. Not the figment behind him.

“Go on,” he says softly, as a last order and Damian swears he can hear footsteps backing away. He turns his head to look and sees nothing. 

There was never anything.

The jarring static of a comm channel opening caught him off guard.

“Robin, update,” Bruce says.

Damian can’t breathe. He has to.

After a few seconds he manages in an even tone, “Nightwing down,” before reaching up and closing the comm, taking off the ear piece and throwing it across the room before Bruce can say anything else.

He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw and it hurts but he doesn’t care. The tears come back to sting him some more but he won’t let them fall. People, allies, die every day. He knows that and he has seen it happen. He should have expected it and he didn’t and he hates himself a little more. His hands ball up into fists on the man’s chest and he looks at the symbol there. He doesn’t know what to think. So, he doesn’t.

Looking up from the symbol he sees his eyes. Opened but lifeless. They’re the same blue eyes Damian has looked into for the last couple years. His heart beats sporadically and he has to slam his eyes shut to stop the tears again. Without thinking he reaches up and closes those eyes below him. 

He needs to go.

“Nightwing down,” he barely more than whispers to himself, but this time his voice catches on the last syllable and the tears do fall.

People and allies die every day, he knows that. But Grayson wasn’t just an ally.

He was a friend. 

And Damian can’t go.


End file.
